


A Second Shot

by AnnaofAza



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M, Pining, Post V-Day, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: “It’s all right to be happy, you know,” Rebecca told him. Mark looked up from his phone, where a text from Eggsy had just flashed across the screen. “What do you mean?”Rebecca took a sip of water before saying, “Sometimes, moving on is the hardest thing you have to do.” She looked down at her plate, then sighed. “But...once you realize that  you can be happy without that person, it gets easier.”





	

Mark stumbled out of the building, suitcase bumping against his leg, and remembered he had nothing in the fridge beyond some bread and a bit of milk. Sighing, he raised his hand, hailing a cab, and prepared for another lonely dinner at Giovanni’s.

On the way over, he kept thinking about Bridget.

It hadn’t been a break-up, not the kind with screaming matches or thrown objects. It had been apologies over the phone and in his home or in her flat, constant reschedulings and cancellations, and weary, sometimes annoyed, silences when they were together. Mark tried in his own way to tell Bridget that he loved her, but it paled in comparison to all the times he called from work and told her he couldn’t make it. They’d tried, both of them, but it came down to Bridget sitting at her cluttered kitchen table past midnight, saying, “Mark, we need to talk.”

Mark had begun moving his things out of her flat by the time they’d finished talking, and Bridget helped, not looking him in the face. He noticed how much her chin trembled and hands shook, but could think of nothing to say beyond useless apologies.

They had tried to remain friends, smiling at each other and trying to avoid gossip at the annual Turkey-Curry Buffet, but eventually stopped. Bridget was steadily working her way up at her news station, while Mark buried himself in case after case, trying to delay the moment where he’d arrive to an empty house.

“No Bridget tonight, Mark?” Giovanni now asked, after taking his order, and Mark shook his head.

“No,” he said, trying to school his expression into his practiced impenetrable look. “Not tonight.”

“Ah, in that case, I can box up some dessert for her,” Giovanni offered cheerfully. “On the house, of course.”

It took Mark a long time to say, voice with only the slightest hint of a tremor below the surface, “Bridget and I are no longer together, Giovanni.”

“Oh.” The man paused, then said, “you can still have the dessert, then.” The _you’ll need it_ was implied.

Mark tried to eat as quickly as he could, paid for his meal, and accepted the dessert with the intention of eating it on his couch one night, perhaps with a movie, something to try to fill the silence, and some scotch.  

The disappointments in his life had been far and in between, but they always came in a form of devastation. There had been walking in on his wife cheating on him with Daniel, him and Bridget breaking up for the first time, and getting the call that his twin had perished during V-Day, the strange phenomenon where people went into rages and killed everyone they laid their hands on. Mark thanked every higher power every day that he’d been in a rural area where a cell phone, let alone a radio, had been in short supply.

But without Harry, he didn’t know who to talk to. Sure, he and his brother rarely saw a lot of each other, but Harry had always been in his corner. He’d made Mark begin divorce proceedings, offered to break Daniel Cleaver’s kneecaps, and listened to Mark’s difficult cases or everyday woes. He was surprisingly perceptive for a tailor, and Mark had once joked he could have joined him at the firm, but Harry had only laughed.

“I’m perfectly happy with being at Savile Row,” he’d said, and Mark never really understood why his brother, who’d been part of the university rugby team and had his eyes set on a military career, joined a tailor shop, but it was clear his brother loved his job.

Mark sighed, pushing open the glass door to head down the street, lost in thought again. He missed his brother. He missed Bridget. He even missed, at times, Daniel Cleaver, the friend he thought he had so long ago. Daniel would have, back in their school days, nudged him and said, “Come on, Darcy, pick it up. Don’t let this get you down.” It had been easy for Daniel to laugh, to breeze through life without many bruises, and Mark had envied that.

In the midst of his thoughts, his body collided with someone else, who uttered a sharp ouch and shit when the takeaway container tumbled out of Mark’s hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mark said, bending down to pick up the box. It had broken open, but thankfully, the cake hadn’t rolled out onto the sidewalk and was somewhat intact.

“No, I’m sorry,” the young man replied, accent unlike what Mark expected from this part of town. “My fault, I wasn’t looking where I was goin’, and I—”

At the abrupt pause, Mark looked up, only to see a face with tired eyes and dark-blond hair. He was young—early or mid-twenties—but with a suit that easily looked like it came from the majority of Mark’s salary. But his expression, somehow, reminded him of the many war-torn widow he’d helped throughout his career.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said, looking…haunted, for the lack of a better word. “You just…you just looked like someone I knew.”

Mark didn’t know what to say. To ask seemed to be prying, and since he himself loathed it, decided against it. Instead, he said a sincere “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” He smiled, then, handsome and cheerful in a blink of an eye. “I’m Eggsy. Sorry about that.”

Mark tried not to raise his eyebrows at the unusual name, but he decided not to mention it. In his line of work, he sometimes stumbled upon names that weren’t the common John or Jane. All he could do is remember how to pronounce it.

“Hello, Eggsy,” Mark said, getting to his feet and offering his hand. “I’m Mark.”

* * *

Being happier was a bit of a surprising feeling.

He hadn’t expected to see Eggsy again, but they seemed to be running into each other more often than not. Eggsy was interested in a particular client of Mark’s, a young woman who was fighting for custody for her two children against her abusive husband, and Mark rather liked to see Eggsy sitting and watching him stride across the room, pointing an accusing finger at the disgusting husband and calling character witnesses to the stand.

It helped later when the husband was soon caught dealing illegal firearms and drugs, and after the case had been won, Eggsy and Mark went out for a celebratory dinner.

Giovanni had smiled cheerfully as he took their orders, perhaps happy to see Mark not sitting alone, and Eggsy and Mark ate their lasagna and talked for hours. Eggsy was employed at the same tailor shop as Harry, had a younger sister and a mother living nearby, and enjoyed sharing anecdotes about his unusual but interesting coworkers. Mark was content to sit back and laugh, a rare thing these days, and share what Eggsy could pry out of him.

Try as he might, Mark could see Bridget in Eggsy: cheerfulness, quick wit, self-consciousness, and occasional foot-in-the-mouth syndrome. But he saw some things that were different, too: his skittishness, his tendency to sit where he could see the door, his fierce protectiveness over his family and friends, and his fidgeting hands.

And something he shared with Mark: a hidden sadness, pushed down so deeply that when Eggsy smiled or made another joke, Mark could almost forget the haunted eyes he’d seen when they first met.

“It’s all right to be happy, you know,” Rebecca told him during one of their rare lunches together.

Mark looked up from his phone, where a text from Eggsy had just flashed across the screen. “What do you mean?”

Rebecca took a sip of water before saying, “Sometimes, moving on is the hardest thing you have to do.” She looked down at her plate, then sighed. “But...once you realize that  you can be happy without that person, it gets easier.”

Mark nodded slowly, and as soon as he was done, called Eggsy and asked if he wanted to see a film.

* * *

 Mark could think it was a midlife crisis, but he knew better than that.

He knew most of his colleagues would sputter if they saw him walking hand in hand with another man, especially someone as young as Eggsy, but Mark didn’t care. Eggsy made him happy, and he hadn’t felt happy in a while. Why not, as Rebecca said, try for that?

After the film, with secretive hand-holding, they had gone back to Mark’s place, and for the first time in a long while, Mark kissed someone who wasn’t Bridget, uncertain and with the realization that yes, this wasn’t Bridget, this wasn’t her, and he’d never—

“Is this…” Eggsy pulled away, then struggled for a while, before asking, “your first? With a bloke, I mean?”

Mark swallowed. “No,” he almost whispered. “Unless we’re going to...ah…”

“Um.” Eggsy paused. “Yes, same. I mean, I thought…”

He looked torn, and Mark wondered if Eggsy sensed his hesitance. “Come here,” he said, more gently, and kissed Eggsy.

When Eggsy drew him in closer, almost desperately, Mark closed his eyes and let himself feel. It was like trying to find footing in the dark and finally being able to navigate after one’s vision adjusted.

There weren’t fireworks or snow, but there was a sigh from Eggsy and a tightening of his own heart, and Mark thought it was enough.

* * *

Eggsy had made him get out of the office to stretch his legs, and Mark smiled at him once they were out in the street. It was a bright day without so much as a cloud in sight, and Eggsy was just suggesting nipping over to a cafe when Mark stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Mark,” Bridget said, startled, then reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Uh, how are you?”

“All right,” he replied. Mark looked at her: black pencil skirt, pastel pink shirt, phone in her hand, and beat-up purse hanging from one shoulder. He wanted to reach out and touch her, perhaps smooth a bit of the flyaway hairs, but remembered everything, instead saying, “Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.”

“Thank you. And, well, I’m sure you’re doing a lot of cases, you know.” Bridget paused, cheeks flushing, clearly wishing she hadn’t brought up the main source of their separation. She then turned towards Eggsy, who was standing behind Mark with his hands in his pockets, not willing to intrude on their conversation. “Uh, yeah. Nice to see you again, Mark, and…?”

“Eggsy,” Eggsy said, then nodded at her. “You are…?”

“Bridget,” she said, looking bemused, clearly trying to place who he was. _“Eggy?”_

“Egg _s_ y,” he corrected.

“Oh. How do you know Mark?”

“Well…” Eggsy began, “I met him through his work.”

Bridget opened her mouth, but was abruptly cut off by the buzzing of her phone. “Oh, I got to take this. Nice talking to you!” she said quickly, then retreated, putting her phone up to her ear, going, “Miranda? Oh, yes, after the poaching story, we move onto nuclear power—”

“Who was that?” Eggsy asked, though it sounded as if he already knew.

“My ex,” Mark explained. Then, “I need a cigarette.”

* * *

 It wasn't so much fun being stood up, but he grimly thought it was his due.

In fact, it was almost a sort of cruel irony. How many times had he called ahead—or even forgot to—and told Bridget he couldn’t make it? How many times had she eagerly opened the door to receive him and a large stack of paperwork? How many times had she waited up for him, then eventually gave up and sprawled on the closest flat surface?

“I’m sorry, Mark,” Eggsy’s message said. “But my boss wanted me to go to Canada, something about a business conference. But we’ll meet up later, right? I…”

Mark had waited for the next sentence, but Eggsy had simply hung up.

Sighing, Mark trudged towards his apartment, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. This seemed like a good evening for scotch.  

* * *

 A week later, as he got out from another case, he saw Eggsy laughing near Rebecca’s car parked out front, and this time, with a woman at his side.

She was beautiful, closer to his age, and for a moment, Mark’s heart seized up, thinking, _No, no, not again_ , but Eggsy saw him, rushing over to push him slightly towards the stranger, and proudly said, “Here hs is! Roxy, meet Mark.”

“Oh,” Roxy said, and despite her smile, Mark suspected she wasn't too pleased to see him with Eggsy, but politely held out her hand and greeted, “Hello, Mark.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” Mark shook her hand, trying to not wince when her grip tightened ever so slightly on his. “Ah, are we having dinner with three tonight?”

“If you don’t mind,” Eggsy said apologetically. “Rox and I just got back from a job; we could really use some carbohydrates.”

So that’s how Mark ended up taking two people to Giovanni’s.

Giovanni raised his eyebrows when he saw Roxy, but asked no questions. The conversation lagged, mostly with Eggsy chatting away. Both Roxy and Mark made affirmative sounds and discussed neutral topics, such as the weather, but neither of them made a move to start a conversation, other than Roxy, who might have been a good barrister in her own right, who occasionally asked Mark pointed questions about his job, where he lived, and his family.

Mark clammed up after the last question, and Eggsy must have picked up on his unwillingness to talk about that particular subject because he muttered something to Roxy, escorting her towards the hallway near the loo.

He finished his pasta, drained his glass, and shook his head at Giovanni, who Mark assumed was coming to ask after the bill, but the man shook his head.

“Your friends look like they’re having a disagreement,” he said, clearly concerned, and Mark got up, preparing himself for a barrage of words or even a fistfight, wondering if he could restrain a pair of young people with a lot of energy and if he’d get kicked out of Giovanni’s for this.

Several people were turning towards the hallway, where Eggsy’s voice could clearly be heard, snapping, “Got _no_ right—” before Roxy cut in: “He even looks the same—”

“Rox, you don't know, okay? You don't.” Eggsy lowered his voice. “Look, I like him. He's a nice man, and I haven't had nice in a long time. Sometimes, I think I've never had it.”

“Eggsy,” she said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I just want to grab something good, Rox. I can't spend my life pining and being miserable. I want someone to come home to, you know?” Eggsy’s voice was soft. “You get me?”

Roxy squeezed his arm, then looked in the direction of Mark, who quickly turned away, trying not to give any of his emotions away. “I get you. Come on, let’s finish our meal, all right?”

* * *

Mark knew better than to ask Eggsy about the conversation he overheard, but it still repeated in his head so much that, two weeks later, he barely kept track of the movie they were watching, only sitting listlessly with his arm wrapped around Eggsy’s shoulder. Eggsy occasionally laughed at a funny line or two, but like him, was mostly silent.  

“I’m sorry about Rox,” Eggsy finally said, after the credits rolled. “She…she doesn’t hate you, but it’s been awhile since I...since I’ve went out with anyone, and the last one…”

Mark frowned, wondering if that someone had cheated on him, betrayed him in some terrible way, then mentally cursed whoever it was for making Eggsy look so crestfallen. “I’m here for you,” he said instead.

Eggsy smiled, leaning back against his arm. “Thanks.” He closed his eyes. “Do you mind me staying the night?”

Of course he didn’t.

Eggsy had no pyjamas to wear, but Mark scrounged up an old pair of sweats and an Arsenal t-shirt and procured an extra toothbrush. It was bright green, and Mark remembered purchasing it after Bridget kept forgetting hers at her flat for the twentieth time, even though she had nineteen of them, since she often forgot and took them home. “What color is it this time, Mark?” Bridget had teased, and smiling, Mark always presented her with a new one, still preserved in its neat, rectangular package.

It was almost silly to consider briefly not handing it over to Eggsy, and Mark forced himself to be pragmatic, watching Eggsy take out the toothbrush and casually toss the packaging in the bin. He changed into his own sleeping wear, brushed his teeth, and washed his face meticulously, bumping hips with Eggsy over the sink, and for a moment, he forgot about the sadness that weighed down his heart.

It was when they were laying in bed that Mark noticed the medal. “May I?” he asked.

Eggsy looked down, then seemed to hesitate before saying, “Yeah. Just...be gentle.” As Mark reached for it, Eggsy watched him, so intently that Mark wondered if he’d slap his hand away at any second. But aside from a shallow breath, Eggsy didn’t touch him, only staying perfectly still as Mark brought it up ever so slightly to study the features under the moonlight.

“What is it?” Mark asked. He didn’t recognize it, despite having seen many medals from many countries throughout his career.

“A present from some bloke I knew.”

“In the military?”

“Sort of,” Eggsy said, with somewhat of a sad smile. “He gave it to me years ago. Never took it off.”

Mark ran his finger over the ridged symbol, a sideways _K_. “Do you still keep in touch?”

Eggsy’s voice became flat, almost toneless. “No. He’s dead now.” He pulled away, fingers slipping up to clasp the medal and squeeze. “V-Day.”

Mark thought about reaching for him, but ended up sitting up, hands folded. “I’m sorry.” He was weary of hearing it, and he was sure Eggsy was, too, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Eggsy laughed, but it sounded hollow. He had rolled over onto his back, eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling. “We’ve all lost people.”

“A brother.” Mark contributed, and found it hard to say more. 

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Mark said, painfully gallant, trying to ignore the squeezing in his chest. “I’ve just missed him.”

“Yeah.” Eggsy sighed. “I just…I wish I could have saved him, but…” His chin quivered, and he turned away, shoulders shaking.

Putting one hand on Eggsy’s back, Mark began to rub it through the thin shirt. “It wasn’t on you,” he said. Mark had heard that line so much since that horrible day, but tried his best to make it sound unique. “All right? It wasn’t.”

A quick, quiet sob burst from Eggsy’s lips. “I could have—I could have—“

“No,” Mark said, continuing his motions, up and down, swooping circles. V-Day had truly broken them all. “No, you probably couldn’t have. But it’s not your fault, Eggsy. It’s not.”

Eggsy said nothing, only burying his face into the pillow.

* * *

 When Mark woke up, he heard the rustle of clothes, and sitting up, saw Eggsy tugging his trousers up his legs.

“Going to work?” he asked.

“Yeah, I got to help out around the shop,” Eggsy said, then turned to kiss him on the cheek. “But we’ll have dinner together tonight, yes?”

“Giovanni’s,” Mark said, smoothing a hand up Eggsy’s arm and trying not to look at the medal resting boldly on his bare chest. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

“Nah, I’ll come to you,” Eggsy promised, smiling softly. “I’ll be there, I promise.”

* * *

When Mark came out, Eggsy wasn’t there.

He stood near the curb, checking his phone, but there were no new messages. Nodding to a few co-workers who were also off of work, Mark looked up and down the street. It was just the usual rush of the evening crowd, hurrying to get home, and no Eggsy.

Rebecca came out when the streetlights began to come on, looking at him with concern. “How long have you been waiting?”

“A while,” Mark replied, pulling up Eggsy’s number and pressing the envelope icon. “It’s all right, you don’t have to wait with me.”

Rebecca hesitated, but her own phone rang, and wincing, placed it to her ear. “Yes? Oh, hello, I’ll be there. Yes, I can’t wait. either!” Hanging up, she looked once at Mark, then where her car was parked. “Mark…”

“No, it’s all right, go on,” Mark reassured, trying his best to look calm, while drafting a message to Eggsy. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Are you—”

Mark cut off her protests, insisting she shouldn’t be late for her engagement, and watched Rebecca shoot him a worried look before going, fussing a bit with her hair before she got in. Meanwhile, some of the store fronts began to light up as well, and a few people were giving him curious looks, likely wondering why he had been standing in the same spot for a good long while.

Mark had just dialed Eggsy for the third time when he got a call.

“Mark,” Eggsy’s voice said, voice so tremulous that he could picture Eggsy’s hands shaking. “I…I’m really sorry, but I can’t make it tonight. I’m _so_ sorry, I—”

“Are you all right?” Mark quickly asked, wondering if Eggsy was at some hospital somewhere. He would need to look up directions and flag a cab and call Rebecca if Eggsy needed someone to—

“Yes, I’m fine, but you see, I have to go, Mark, I have to…” Eggsy paused, before saying, “You remember the bloke I knew who got killed during V-Day?”

Mark silently nodded.

“Mark?”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I remember.”

“Well, turns out that he’s not dead after all. And…I have to go. To him.”

All he could say was “...Oh.”

And Mark knew this: Eggsy would leave him. First, his wife. Then Bridget. Now, Eggsy.

“I’m sorry.” Eggsy said, then repeated, “I’m so sorry. But…I thought I would never—he would never…I have to see him.”

“It’s all right.” His voice sounded very far away now, and he could feel the phone case pressing into his fingers. “Go to him, Eggsy.”

“Mark, I—” Eggsy began, but was interrupted by a sharp beep. Mark pulled away the phone from his ear, looking at the number and photo on the screen, then nearly dropped it right on the sidewalk.

“I’ve got a call waiting,” Mark said, very faintly. He wondered if he sounded too sharp or too cold or too abrupt, but said anyway, “I have to go.”

He hung up with a click, Eggsy’s apologies still in his ear, then, trembling ever so slightly, tapped the green phone icon. 

“...Hello?” Mark slowly asked, wondering if this was all some sort of strange dream.

“Hello, Mark,” his brother said, sounding weary but happy. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written a crossover. There's always a first time for everything, though, right?


End file.
